Eight

Miss Turner’s bright-red cloak swayed as she headed to the cottage. Peter Dutton helped one sister into the cart, doffing his hat when the Pallinsburn housekeeper walked by. The young man watched her like a cheerful puppy in want of a tasty bite.

“She’s not for you, my lad. Not for you,” Marcus uttered under his breath.

Yet, he couldn’t lay claim to her. Miss Turner had gifted him with her trust. He couldn’t abuse it despite the flirtation flowing naturally between them, a current she fought hard.

When was the last time a woman stirred him like this?

Her strokes to his cravat tantalized him more than artful ballroom banter. He was far from London’s elegance…grimy with work-worn gloves on his hands and dirt on his face. As he walked to his front door, his achy strides reminded him he wasn’t as young as Mr. Dutton, nor was he accustomed to hard labor. Putting on his best smile, he’d not scare off the youth. He needed him.

“Mr. Dutton. Do you have your delivery pouch?”

“Right here, milord.” Peter patted the cart’s sideboard. “Can I interest you in a broadsheet? Two for a shilling.”

The lad hefted his leather pouch from the cart. “The Gazette, the Edinburgh Times…some pamphlets. Take your pick.”

They stood near the front door’s lamplight, riffling through old broadsheets, the edges ripped and curling. One pamphlet caught Marcus’s eye. He thumbed through the yellowed publication and smiled. This would be powerful ammunition with Miss Turner.

“I’ll take this, the Gazette, and the Edinburgh Times.”

“That pamphlet?” The lad screwed up his face. “It’s free. Nobody wants it.”

Marcus pulled coins from his waistcoat pocket and dropped them into Peter’s hand. He added another one. “For the delivery.”

Mr. Dutton counted the coins. “You gave me too much, milord.”

Marcus inclined his head away from the cart. “A word in private?”

They walked three paces.

“Keep the extra shilling.” Voice quiet, Marcus set a hand on Peter’s shoulder. “I’ve a job for you, but you need to keep it between us.”

“Yes?”

“I’m looking for a woman.”

Mr. Dutton flashed a smile. “Then you’ll be wanting a trip to Learmouth village, milord. There’s a pair of buxom redheads at the public house who’d be glad to make your acquaintance.”

Marcus chuckled. “Not quite what I’m looking for. I’m trying to locate an older woman, Maude Turner, a family acquaintance. Have you heard of her?”

“Can’t say I have,” Peter said, scratching sparse chin whiskers. “I go Tillmouth way this week. Coldstream next. I can make inquiries.”

“Good lad.” He slapped Peter’s shoulder and dipped his head near the youth’s ear. “Remember, complete discretion. No one must know.”

“I understand.”

“Good. There’s another shilling if you find anything.”

Peter Dutton climbed onto his cart. Ruby Dutton sat on the driver’s seat beside her brother, flashing too much ankle.

“Good eve to you, milord,” she purred, setting her hood on her red curls.

Grinning, Marcus tipped his hat and sketched a bow. As the cart pulled away, Ruby Dutton blew a saucy kiss, the artful tilt of her chin the sign of a woman in search of trouble. It wouldn’t do to encourage her. Less than a year ago, he would’ve pursued Miss Dutton and the Learmouth redheads. Now, he couldn’t muster interest. Was he losing his edge?

Tucking the papers under his arm, he pushed the warped front door. Wood squeaked, and the weighty door swung wide. “Must fix that.”

He froze on the threshold, his feet heavy. Everything was…cozy and warm. His grandmother’s red and yellow carpet was spread over a clean floor. Tapers lit her favorite leaf-shaped sconces on polished paneled walls. The aroma of fresh-baked bread floated from the kitchen. His gaze bounced from the stairs to the repaired parlor doorway. Miss Turner’s handiwork?

Idling with the door wide open, time could’ve slipped past. His shoulders bunched, and his breath caught in his chest. He could be a boy coming for a visit. Any minute, his grandfather would lumber down the stairs, arms spread ready to give a bear hug. How he missed those hugs and the tales his grandfather would spin.

But he wasn’t a boy. He was a man full grown, facing the life he’d plotted for himself and finding his story lacking. Slowly, he shut the door and removed his hat and gloves, shaking off the peculiar sensation. Near his feet, the old iron boot wipe sat ready. Where had his officious housekeeper unearthed the relic? He crouched low and traced its decorative swirls, a fine coat of rust dusting his finger. Grandfather would never have let Pallinsburn decay.

Dishes clinked. Hiding the pamphlet in the broadsheets, he cocked his ear. Miss Turner hummed in his kitchen, each lilting note a bread crumb trail to follow. Putting one foot in front of the other, he went through the empty dining room. He could be a boy again on the hunt for honeyed biscuits. The kitchen was almost the same. Herbs hung from rafters in the places his grandmother had dried them. A rasher of bacon peeked from a cloth-covered bowl. Copper pans shined on the wall.

“Milord, you can eat now.” Miss Turner stirred a pot at the hearth. “Or you can have your bath.”

He turned to the scullery and nearly groaned.

Steam curled from Pallinsburn’s lone tub. A small blaze burned in the corner fireplace, casting orange light in the scullery. The modest washroom, with its sloping floor and chipped whitewashed stone walls, could have been a pleasure palace.

Marcus twisted around, massaging the small of his back. “I should wait. Dinner is ready.”

“You have the look of a man who’d rather have his bath first.”

“If that won’t upset you too much?”

“I’m at your service, milord.” Miss Turner picked up a platter off the table. “I’ll set the victuals to warm by the hearth.” Balancing the dish on her hip, she nodded at the scullery. “Go on. I can see the bath entices you more than my cooking.” And she winked at him.

The large coopered tub had been wedged into a corner. He set his papers on a three-legged stool where a soap cake sat on linen. Fighting his boots, he nudged one loose and then the other, pain shooting everywhere. There was no door on the scullery. Too tired to care, he stretched out of his homespun coat, quickly peeling away each layer of clothes. Standing naked, he untied his queue and added the ribbon to the scatter of boots and garments.

One foot stepped in the scalding bath and then the other.

“Uhh.” He grunted at heat prickling up his calves.

Gripping the tub’s rim, he dunked himself. Shooting up, he gasped, sweltering water sluicing over his skin. Eyes shut, he sank into the bath, his head lolling against the wall.

“Miss Turner, you’ve delivered a slice of heaven.”

“Don’t get too comfortable,” she called from the kitchen. “I can’t have you falling asleep on me.”

Time passed. How much, he didn’t know and didn’t care. Hot water absorbed his aches and pains from the day’s labor. For the first time since returning to Pallinsburn, ease seeped into his bones…a peacefulness. Not once today had the craving come. His grandfather believed hard work was good for the soul, and the old man never drank a drop of spirits. What would Grandfather think of the man Marcus had become? He groaned and sank deeper in the tub.

Footsteps pattered on flagstone. “Milord?”

“Did you fear I drowned?” His voice was languid, and looseness filled his limbs from today’s victories.

There was satisfaction in seeing a fence fixed and an eyesore of a tree cleared away. So was there a deep sensation in his loins at having the sultry-voiced housekeeper looking after his needs.

“I thought I heard a groan.”

One lazy eye opened. “That’d be my muscles singing odes of joy. You’re a miracle worker.”

Her quiet titter filled the scullery. Miss Turner toed his boot, her stare homing in on wet hair falling around his face. His housekeeper’s cheeks flushed nicely as she took her time collecting his clothes into a pile. Proper housekeepers wouldn’t attend the master at his bath, but Miss Turner wasn’t a proper housekeeper…a nice advantage to this arrangement.

“The missing door… Is that why you insisted all bathing be done here?” Eyes closed, he splashed water across his chest. “So you could watch?”

“Hardly.”

By her curt tone, his teasing must’ve missed the mark. He was losing his edge. Yet, she hesitated. He could feel her in the scullery, her presence as good as a touch on his skin.

“Are you peeking inside the tub, Miss Turner?”

Footsteps brushed the floor. Metal scraped.

“I wouldn’t be so bold, milord. I’m merely stoking the scullery fire.”

He grinned. Sharp humor limned her voice, but when his eyes opened, Miss Turner gave him her back, jabbing the poker at a log. Orange light flared over trim ankles dressed in black stockings. Her hem was as high as her bodice was low, both eyebrow-raising inches outside of decent.

“You know what would make this perfect?” he asked.

“Let me guess. Me scrubbing your back?” Her tone was bored.

“No. A cheroot. I enjoy a good smoke at the end of day.”

She whipped around, the poker in hand. “You want a cheroot?”

Did she want to scrub his back? Fire crackled and snapped behind her. Miss Turner’s hair fell in disarray like a maid of ancient lore.

“I usually have one in the evening, but I wouldn’t turn down a back scrub.” He waggled his brows. “If you’re offering.”

“Scrub your own back.” The poker clanked against the wall. Her high color could be from the sultry room, or from being upset by his rebuff of her small advance—because he’d lay odds she’d come to do more than collect the laundry.

“Wait.” He sat up, sloshing water. “Please stay. For conversation only.”

She snatched clothes and boots off the floor. “You mean the kind between friends.”

“Is there anything better?”

Laundry on her hip, Miss Turner lingered in the doorway. Her dark eyes burned, and there was no mistaking the proud tilt of her chin. “So, it’s friendly conversation and a cheroot you’re wanting.”

If this was fishing, the hook bobbled close to the fish’s mouth.

“You are a mind reader. That’s what makes you the best housekeeper.”

“All of four days, milord.” She gave him the once-over, shifting her load, his smalls dangling from the balled-up garments.

“You’re a fast learner.”

“And where would I find your cheroots? If I decided to get one for you.”

“In the chest Mr. Dutton delivered today.” He splashed water on his shoulder. “It’s by the stairs.”

She watched the droplets trickle down his arms and chest.

He scooped water over the other shoulder. “There’s a flat mahogany box inside the chest. Get that for me, and I’ll be forever in your debt.”

Her mouth curved up, though he wouldn’t say she smiled. His housekeeper disappeared into the kitchen, her russet skirts swaying briskly. “As you wish, milord.”

“Don’t forget to light it for me,” he called out.

There was an unceremonious thud of boots on the floor. He grabbed the soap, his chuckle raspy. Miss Turner had laid out her demands this morning; now it was his turn.

Flirtation was a language all its own with a different set of rules. Most men falsely believed the back-and-forth between men and woman had to be of the tender variety. Not true. Flirtation could come with a bite. So could sex. But this was not ground for the faint of heart. Intricate layers of rules awaited the combatant who wished to learn them.

Cardinal among those rules was cleanliness. Marcus rolled the soap in his hands. A quick wash of his hair, his face, and his arms was wise. A man made better headway with a woman when he was clean. He dunked twice in the tub and came up scrubbing his face.

When he opened his eyes, Miss Turner stood beside the water pump, cheroot in hand. Languid smoke curled from the hot, orange tip.

“As requested, milord.” She handed over the cheroot.

“Now who is the sainted one?” he crooned and put it to his lips, inhaling the robust flavor. Lightness in his head matched the euphoria coursing through his veins until Miss Turner pulled his flask from her apron pocket.

“I found this in the kitchen.” She pulled the wooden stopper and sniffed. “You prefer whiskey. Shall I fill it for you?”

“No. Put it away.”

On the other side of a smoky haze, she turned the flask over in her hands. One finger traced his initials etched in metal before dropping it in her apron pocket. Miss Turner’s brown eyes measured him. She had to have an inkling. A lot of men who fell prey to drink loitered at the Golden Goose.

“Whiskey can be a devil that grabs hold of you and doesn’t let go,” she said. “Some men… It unhinges them.”

He studied the wall’s peeling paint, his plans for flirtation shriveling. The silver flask bulging in her pocket grated, a reminder of his vices…of why he was here in the first place.

“I can leave, if you’d rather be alone.”

A light craving scraped the back of his throat, but it would pass. The siren weakened every day, and truth be told, he liked Miss Turner as much as he lusted for her. Drained as he was, her companionship was effortless, a rare thing with women.

“Stay with me.”

His housekeeper dragged a stool that was near the water pump and, smoothing the back of her skirt, took her seat. “Something bothering you, milord?”

Her gentleness invited calm. They inhabited the smallest of rooms, yet the air, the walls opened up.

“Many things bother me.”

“Is it the cottage?”

Arms on the tub’s rim, he sank lower in the water. “Why do you say that?”

“Last night in the parlor, you were like a man walking into a jail cell.”

He studied the cheroot’s ash tip. “Coming back. It’s not all that bad.”

“Tonight, in the kitchen…” She plucked at her apron, her throaty alto slowing. “You were different…wonder-struck, I’d say.”

“You’ve had a good hand with the cottage. Worked miracles in one day.”

“Thank you, milord. I could say the same of you. You didn’t have to work so hard, but you did.”

He put the cheroot to his lips. “And now you’re closeted with an unhinged man.”

She followed his sight line to her pocket. At least she didn’t go running. No, Miss Turner surprised him and leaned in closer, setting her elbows on the tub’s rim, obscuring his view of the flask.

“You don’t look unhinged to me.” Steam dampened her thin amber tendrils. One lock stuck to her neck, curving over her collarbone. He wanted to free the gold strands and test their texture.

He flicked his cheroot, and ash dropped into the tub. “You guessed the source of my troubles. It’s why I’m here…to spare my family further scandal caused by my vices.”

“I’ve seen men in all kinds of bad places. But you’re far from being eaten up by it.” She touched his elbow, her voice quiet. “You know this about yourself. Best of all, you’re doing something about it.”

Tension evaporated from his shoulders. He was raw and open with his young, too-knowing housekeeper. Fire cast a warm glow behind her. Overhead, the small scullery window changed night from violet to black. The ease of sitting with her sank into his bones. She came from less-reputable places; the rules between them were lax. He could sit naked with her and not have some outraged mama charge in and demand marriage.

She made her own rules, deciding tonight to gift him with her thoughtful presence.

His mouth firmed on an ugly truth: men might have paid for her. Hadn’t he visited the Golden Goose in search of an actress or two? True, she wasn’t an actress, but that wouldn’t matter. Never had he thought of those women as having their own stories, their own wants. Or family. He understood why she wished for a new direction and why she feared it.

Genevieve Turner craved acceptance from the sole family member who’d deemed her unacceptable before she’d been born.

Sweat ran down his scalp. He raked a hand through his hair, his buttocks shifting on the hard tub bottom. “It strikes me that you’re fighting hard to assemble a family, while I’ve gone to great lengths to disassemble mine.”

“With whiskey and gambling.”

“My profligate ways have brought one headache after another to my brother.”

“You want to be a thorn in his flesh. Is that it?”

“I excel at it.” He inhaled from the cheroot, and facing the ceiling, he exhaled a ring of smoke.

“You don’t fight your brother, milord. You fight yourself.”

He bit down on the cheroot and let her words steep. How novel. There was a ring of truth in what she said. He was his own worst enemy, and it had taken a woman a decade younger to point out in a matter of days what he’d taken years to conclude. Her quiet, oh-so-reasonable alto spoke the truth, and it aroused him.

Heaviness flooded his balls. The internal push and pull of lusting for his housekeeper kept tripping over his better intentions. Life hadn’t been fair to Genevieve Turner. He wouldn’t heap another burden on her by besmirching her newly minted reputation.

But he wanted her. Badly.

“Such wisdom,” he said with a bite.

Dewy-skinned from steam, she wasn’t backing down. “A vice will eat you alive. Make your peace while you can.”

Miss Turner’s dark eyes leveled him. She’d shown more grace, more fearlessness in search of her new life away from London. What had he done? Finagled a friend in need to make a devil’s bargain, and treated a young woman as mere chattel. He was all very gentlemanly and helpful, quick with a witty word or two. Women loved his face and form, but the water before him reflected a selfish man.

No amount of time at Pallinsburn could cleanse him of that.

He sat up and pulled the cheroot from his mouth. “I have something for you.”

“For me?”

“Yes, but I’m of a mind to use it as a negotiation piece.”

The tobacco’s rich aroma swirled around them. Cool air caressed his skin not in the water. His exposed nipples tightened.

She folded her arms around her knees, taking in his chest. “Do go on.”

His cock stirred to attention. There was no mistaking the feminine purr in her voice. Heat sparked his skin. If change was to happen, if he was to become a better man, it began now. He’d pass along his gift and see Miss Turner left the scullery untouched.

“You know you cornered me this morning…with your demands,” he said, sliding comfortably into the mantle of humor.

She giggled, and the little white bow on her bodice swung merrily. “I thought our discussion went well.”

He cherished her sweet laugh. “Of course you did. Everything went in your favor.”

“What was decided works for both of us. A practical arrangement, if you will.”

“Spoken like a woman well practiced in the art of persuasion. If this morning was a game, I’d say you gained the upper hand with resounding success.”

“Were we playing a game, milord?” Her eyes widened with feigned innocence.

Mist from the bath curled the amber wisps falling around her cheeks. He’d wager those hairs were silky soft. Youthful or not, Miss Turner seemed well practiced in many things.

He dipped the cheroot’s burning tip in the water. The bath hissed. “With men and women, it’s always a game.”

“Are you educating me on the ways of men?”

He set the cheroot on the stool and grabbed the papers, getting an eyeful of his housekeeper. A fresh wave of want stiffened his cock. Tiny moisture beads clung to her breasts, shining pretty as diamonds on ample cleavage. Her shift’s white tie, the one he’d ogled when she made her bold demands, dangled over her bodice. The tie begged to be pulled.

If he wasn’t careful, he’d press his mouth to hers and cry defeat.

“The thing is,” he said, hips shifting and sloshing water. “What we have is like a game of fox and geese. Are you familiar with the board game?”

A sweet laugh erupted. “Fox and geese? Yes, I’ve seen it. Pray tell, what do you mean?”

“Well, I’m the fox, outnumbered and outflanked by you.”

“Because of this morning.”

His gaze dipped again to her pretty bosom. Plentiful curves rounded over her faded, russet-red bodice. He was the worst kind of wastrel; everyone expected it of him.

Why not give in?

Sweat trickled down his temple, owing nothing to the hot room. Miss Turner had to know he’d be putty in her hands if she crooked her finger at him.

“I’m not skilled with household matters.” He cleared his throat, forcing himself to look higher.

Dark lashes fringed her patient, knowing eyes.

He grinned, aware he had been caught staring at her cleavage. “And you got the best of me, going on attack at the crack of dawn, no less. Very unsporting of you.”

“It was well past dawn, milord. But do go on. This is quite interesting.”

Her chin rested in her hand. She was close enough that he could count the freckles on her nose. Miss Turner was pretty but not in the conventional sense. Her jaw was too square, her eyes too dark, and her stature tall for most men, but her body housed a soul older than her years and he wanted to lose himself in her.

Fighting for clarity, Marcus tapped the folded papers. “I have here something to even things out. A negotiation piece.”

“In our game of fox and geese.” Her voice dipped with humor. “And here I thought we were all about cleaning up your cottage.”

“A minor detail. Life is about the dance between men and women.”

Feminine lips bowed in a sensual smile. “A vicar’s wisdom, I’m sure.”

Firelight illuminated her honey-colored hair. Desire shocked his system again, the jolt reaching between his legs. A medieval device could be slowly crushing him, for all the sweet torture. He was ten times a fool for conversing with her while in his bath. His vision glazed over, all because messy hair and freckles entranced him…and sweet heaven, her breasts. They were big. The current circumstances defined purgatory: him naked with a desirable woman he could never, should never touch.

“About that negotiation piece,” she prompted, nodding at the broadsheet.

“I have a prime item, but it will come at a price.” His voice tight, he willed the intense wave of need between his legs to subside.

Miss Turner’s eyes narrowed. “Go on.”

“What’s folded inside these broadsheets is worth having my chamber pot cleaned all winter.”

“What?” She balked. “You want chamber pots cleaned. Not a service of another kind?”

At least his housekeeper didn’t mince words. His erection pulsed, and he fought the urge to discuss a trade of intimate favors. Temptation smothered him, her skin smelling of warmth and clean air, her unruly hair, and impertinent chin.

He gripped the tub’s rim. “I am trying to be a gentleman.”

“Despite asking me to talk with you in your bath.”

“A minor detail. No one needs to know.”

She sat up taller, her arms resting in her lap. The quirk of her mouth told him she’d made a concerted effort not to peek at his nether regions. She had to know his cock was at full, painful, please touch me salute.

“And I thought you might want a harmless kiss.”

Her smoky alto sent a perfect tingle across his nape. He eyed her supple pink mouth. “Kissing you would never be harmless.”

Her chin dipped at the compliment, and messy tresses slipped forward. One of these days, he’d ask why she didn’t pin her hair, but for the moment, he needed her out of the scullery. Otherwise, he’d do something foolish—such as press his mouth to hers, take her hand, and guide it into the water to stroke him.

“Well,” she began. “Since you’d prefer clean chamber pots over kisses—”

His molars clamped. “I didn’t say that.” It’d be useless to argue what he really wanted. Feeding his wants wouldn’t help her.

“Do I get to see what you have?”

“No,” he said testily. If they were playing a game of fox and geese, the geese would be outflanking him again, worse than this morning. “It’s worth cleaning the chamber pots. All winter. Trust me.”

“Not if I don’t get to see it, milord.”

“Do you trust no one?”

Her moue and shrug came with “I’ll give you a month.”

He waved the papers. “This is worth two months at least.”

“A month,” she countered. “My final offer. Consider yourself fortunate that I don’t reduce my offer to a week.”

He chuckled at the incongruity of the master of the house negotiating labor from a domestic, but she had him cornered. Miss Turner warmed to the game, a woman born to it. Her presence drove him mad, yet invigorated him. He guessed that if a high-flying duke had discovered her at the Golden Goose and played his cards right, Miss Turner would’ve been a celebrated courtesan.

Instead, she’d chosen rustic housekeeper, his housekeeper.

“What’s it to be?” she prompted.

Her lush curves and stalwart ways sucked the air right out of his lungs. Even her voice teased him. He handed over the papers. “Very well. A month.”

She unfolded the broadsheets, and the pamphlet tumbled onto her lap. Her eyes rounded, silently telling him she valued the humble gift more than gold. He slid lower in the water. Miss Turner’s lips moved curiously. Whispery sounds came from her mouth as though she strained at reading the title aloud.

“You have heard of Ben Franklin, haven’t you?” he ventured.

“Oh yes. A third mate from a Boston ship used to visit me at the Golden Goose. He’d talk about Mr. Franklin’s experiments in electricity.”

He sat up to read the top lines aloud. “Letters on Electricity published in London by Peter Collinson, 1751. A little out of date. But you don’t mind?”

“No. It’s perfect.” She turned the yellowed pages with care, sometimes pausing to study the text. One hand covered her mouth as though she couldn’t believe her good fortune.

“You’ll find diagrams in there. I thought with your interest in mechanical things…” His words trailed off.

He was in a rare place…at a humble loss for words with a woman. Sinking lower in the tub, he marveled at how deeply she valued the well-worn pamphlet. He could be a piece of furniture, for all her interest in him.

“Thank you, milord. You have no idea how much this pleases me.”

“Oh, I’m beginning to guess.”

She stood, her brown eyes shining. “If you don’t need me, I’ll go to my room.”

Need her? His hand splashed into the tub. He made a show of searching for the cleaning cloth at the bottom. “It’s been a long day for both of us,” he said, waving her off. “Enjoy the night as you see fit.”

Body stiff, he waited for her door to shut before slumping in the bath until his chin hit the water. His knees broke the surface, and the back of his head hit the wall, but all his agony was between his legs.

Hot. Throbbing. Needy.

The cottage was silent, save Miss Turner’s muffled voice coming from her room beside the scullery.

He shut his eyes. Need her? The words brought seductive images…her plump, dewy breasts inches from his mouth. Air whistled between his clenched teeth. One hand slid down his thigh. Her muted voice carried—faint, melodic, desirable. He should stop…go to his chamber… But the desire to touch himself…

He grabbed his erection, a gust leaving his lungs. This wouldn’t take long. He was desperate for satisfaction. Water-wrinkled fingers fondled his length, the pleasure-pain of touch bittersweet because it wasn’t her hand caressing him. Through half-open eyes, he looked to the unlit kitchen.

Why did he want her so badly?

Visions of Miss Turner danced in his head, while her muffled voice came achingly real from the next room. Staring at the wall, he stroked his erection, conjuring her soft lips, her curved bodice hovering at the tub’s rim.

Low, rusty laughter erupted. He was an unhinged degenerate. If she knew he touched himself to the sound of her voice, Miss Turner would run to the Beckworth cottage and not think twice. He circled his cock’s tip. One finger grazed the sensitive spot. Pleasure shocked him. His ass muscles squeezed.

He played his hard shaft, up and down. Up and down. Water slapped inside the tub. Miss Turner was saucy and playful at the same time, the mixture snaring him better than well-practiced widows. He stroked faster, his breath ragged. In his mind, he pulled her shift’s small white tie. Her bodice loosened. His housekeeper slipped her hands inside and she moaned, cupping her breasts for him.

Air shot from his lungs. He groaned and put his mouth against the stone wall, stifling his noises. Excruciating pleasure-pain built low on his spine. His frantic hand rubbed hard. Up and down. Water sloshed around him.

Tremors racked his body. Tired muscles clenched, merciless with need.

“Genevieve.” He breathed her name against the stone wall.

He doubled over, his eyes squeezing tight. Shuddering from head to toe his seed shot free of his cock.

Satisfaction melted over him.

Panting hard, he watched his breath ripple the water’s surface. His eyes stretched wide, focusing, stretching wide again. Between his legs, a ribbon of milky-white fluid spiraled in the water, floating a moment before sinking to the bottom.

Spent to the bone, he stayed as he was, holding his penis as it went limp. Wet hair fell around his face. His stomach growled, while his housekeeper, the red-cloaked woman with secrets, read aloud in her room. He hungered for Miss Turner, his utterly off-limits housekeeper.

How would he survive this long, cold winter?